


Protea, Protea

by The Primera Haruoka (TenshiEren14)



Category: Seven - Fandom, 七つの大罪 - 鈴木央 | Nanatsu no Taizai | The Seven Deadly Sins - Suzuki Nakaba (Anime & Manga)
Genre: But you kinda can't have Meli and Elizabeth and have them not making googly eyes at each other, F/M, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Happy Reading :D, I don't even know if these are like all part of one continuity, Lots of made up worldbuilding, M/M, None of these are in chronological order lmao, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, The Holy War, The Melizabeth really isn't the focus boys, crossposted to tumblr, tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26023252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenshiEren14/pseuds/The%20Primera%20Haruoka
Summary: And suddenly, without even a bit of awareness between the both of them, the Fairy and the Giant began to bind themselves together, a braid so tight that even death could not untangle their strands again.Short drabbles about Drole and Gloxinia and their weird, dynamic relationship.
Relationships: Drole & Gloxinia (Nanatsu no Taizai), Drole & Goddess Elizabeth & Gloxinia & Meliodas (Nanatsu no Taizai), Drole/Gloxinia (Nanatsu no Taizai), Elizabeth Liones/Meliodas, Gloxinia & Meliodas (Nanatsu no Taizai)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	1. Anemone

**Author's Note:**

> Truthfully, I'm driven entirely by spite and love for Gloxinia but Season 3 hit me hard so now all of y'all get to suffer as I work through my Gloxinia complex.

The night air is thick, oppressive even as the endless fields stretched beneath it portray an illusion of serenity. The forest is still behind him, the fae locked in uneasy restfulness, their unconscious minds unable to fully hide their doubts in their king's ability to protect them from the war burning the earth to ash just beyond their borders. 

Drole wonders, not for the first time, if he's made a mistake dragging Gloxinia into this battle. 

His steps are quiet as he wanders into the vast meadow, moonlight spilling over satiny petals like cursed mercury. He'd only just managed to convince Meliodas to rest, even if for a moment. Now all that was left was the other restless monarch, the king who was far more aggressive hummingbird than delicate butterfly. 

"It's a beautiful night." 

Violet becomes dusky blue beneath the weight of the darkness surrounding them, yet even in this deep black, Gloxinia's scarlet hair maintains its eternal luster. A part of Drole is struck by how akin to a funeral procession the view before him is - the immortal glow of the king of fae surrounded by blushing flowers ripe for the picking, red hair the mar of blood flowing freely from the uncleanable wound. 

He's careful not to crush the foliage as he walks, a private smile illuminating his face for but a moment, "Yes, it is." 

Gloxinia spreads his wings, wordlessly relocates to Drole's shoulder as the titan settles himself. There's no need for words between them at this hour, nothing that can be said to change the decisions they'd made while drunk on sunlight and adrenaline. Still, Drole cannot suppress the guilt he feels, the twinge of regret sitting high on his breast as he replays the events in his mind. 

Fairies, he remembers Gloxinia once telling him, have no business in secular wars. 

It was a fair stance to take. The fairies were not like any of the other races. They bore no will to procreate, had no instinct which drove them to survive. No greed with which to make them consider expanding their kingdom. Their lifespans stretched far into the millenia and with time came distance. Gloxinia was an old creature, older than so many of the systems and kingdoms of the world. Older than the generals of both sides of this war. To him, every conflict must've seemed the squabble of overactive children. His only duty was to the Sacred Tree and to his people. So long as he stood, it mattered not if the demons and goddesses and everyone in between burned the world to nothing. His duty would be fulfilled. 

And Drole had convinced him to risk it all to fight in some petty, fleeting war. 

"Stop that."

His tongue is clumsy from unspoken doubt but he manages a sound of confusion. 

Gloxinia's tiny fingers prod at the spaces between his vast eyebrows, languid motions befitting the childish curl to his words, "I can hear you thinking from over here." A soft giggle, and though Gloxinia weighs nothing, Drole can feel him rolling onto his back atop his head, focuses as strands of unbroken red begin to drip into his face, "You're worrying over nothing. I already made my decision." 

He raises his hand, extending a finger so Gloxinia can sit on the digit. He feels more at ease when he can see who he's talking to, finds peace in the eye contact, in making sense out of the tangled up signals of Gloxinia's ever enigmatic body language. 

"I've not said anything," Drole murmurs, entranced with the way the fae king folds his wings and perches himself on the brunt of the back of his palm. He'd hated sitting there initially, resolute in his decision to stand with his own two wings if he had to speak to Drole man to man. Time had eased his pride. 

Gloxinia's nose scrunches cutely and he averts his gaze. Quite suddenly, Drole is reminded that the fairy before him can read hearts. 

"You're not exactly doing yourself any favours here, Drole." 

Embarrassment is a sensation one must become acclimatized to quickly in the presence of the fairy king. It was one of the first lessons Drole had learned as his companion, but even the best students faltered in their mastery of certain teachings. Airy laughter trickles forth from gentle lips and under the moonlight, shaking shoulders glow with marble's perfect sheen. Gloxinia is beautiful and already, the laugh that had been so absent in recent days had returned from its abrupt journey. 

Somehow, he manages to compose himself. Tilts his great head so he can focus on the multitude of stars wishing him peace from the vastness of sky, "I'm sorry." 

He hears a put-upon sigh, the sort that accompanies a helpless quirk of the lips and a softening of piercing eyes. Gloxinia flies silently, again, perching his body on the broad slope of Drole's shoulder. When he speaks, the titan can hear the age in his words, feels the fine hairs on his flesh prick up from the power of the utterings alone. "Nothing that's worth protecting isn't also worth fighting for, Drole." 

And he understands what Gloxinia is trying to do, but he cannot help the tempest of his thoughts, "You don't have to fight." 

The fairy laughs at that and though the sound is genuine, there is an edge of desperation to it, a harshness that makes Drole think that perhaps, he's missing something, "I'm not stupid. Those Goddesses," and he pauses, chooses his words carefully like he fears Nerobasta will descend upon him for his unfavourable thoughts, "they're determined to have the Forest for themselves. It was only a matter of time before they turned their attention to us to fulfil their needs." 

That, Drole could sympathise with.

The Demons had been causing mass hysteria in their valleys and plains, terraforming the land during their hunts, draining their resources, murdering Giant and Human alike in their bid for more ground to use against the Goddesses. Drole had the most elite of his warriors join him in a bid to retake their mountain and the surrounding lands. 

He had been the only one to return home. 

Since then, his Titans had been scattered and broken, seeking shelter in mountains and forests while their king tried to put together a plan that would see them victorious over this new and most formidable of adversaries. Except Drole had no idea what he was doing, had no clue whether or not he had made the right decision joining this conflict. In that respect, Gloxinia was the better of them; a ruler who had carefully weighed his choices and sided with the lesser of the evils to preserve as much as he could. Drole had simply been backed into a corner. 

He frowns, the delicate expression out of place on his usually stony countenance, “Do you think we picked the right side?” 

Gloxinia’s tiny elbow digs into the side of his jaw, a snicker falling from bitter lips, “It’s  _ war _ Drole, there is no such thing as the right side.” The whimsy in his voice fades to sobriety, sharp edges of elbow against bone soothing as the frail touch of Gloxinia’s palm rests upon Drole’s face, “We just need to make sure that we’re on the winning side.” 


	2. Ajuga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shenanigans in the Fairy King's Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot closer to what I'd like the length of these drabbles to be! It's also pretty light, so enjoy!

"Ah-" 

The soft sound catches his attention and Gloxinia looks up from his flower weaving. Gerheade's giggles ring out in the clearing and he soon doubles over, thick chuckles filling the air.

Somehow, Drole's managed to tangle himself in the vines draping from the lower branches of the trees. 

Two of his arms are stuck fast to his sides, the other two tied tight to his chest. He stands suspended a few inches off the floor and the poor thing looks so genuinely confused that Gloxinia finds tears beading in his eyes from the force of his laughter. 

Of course, Gerheade is already trying to coax the vines from the Giant's flesh, shoulders quivering as she tries to stifle her amusement so she can focus on the job ahead of her. It's useless work however, the spirit of the plant seems especially fond of Drole's warmth and the more Gerheade attempts to untangle, the tighter the tendrils become. 

"Brother," she eventually complains, face pink from effort and stifled laughs, "at least pretend to help!" 

Gloxinia flies closer, still wiping away his tears, "I don't know, he seems pretty cozy there, don't you think?" 

Drole doesn't speak - or rather, he cannot, the vines have worked their way up to his throat and he has never been one to push his luck unnecessarily - but the plea in his wide purple eye is enough to send Gloxinia into another fit of guffaws. 

He tells the tree off while he clutches his stomach, the vines whining as they reluctantly retract their limbs. Gloxinia makes a note to relocate them entirely, if they're that desperate for warmth then they mustn't be getting enough sunlight. It is only because he's so distracted that he manages to miss Drole's gestures. 

A small pebble hits him squarely in the stomach, knocking the air from his body with a muffled 'ooph'. Again, Gerheade's tinny laughter fills the space around them for but a brief moment and Gloxinia only barely manages to right himself midair before he collides with the tree behind him. 

"What was that for?" he cries, offended. The brat has the gall to avert his eye, body language the picture of innocence like Gloxinia can't hear his heart shaking in righteous amusement. The fairy king turns to his precious sister, clasping her hands in his own, "Did you see that? Was that not treason, sister?" 

She tithers, not even trying to be secretive about the depths of her betrayal, "I don't know brother, I was focused on a passing butterfly." She gives her most diplomatic smile, joy dancing in her eyes, "I didn't see a thing." 

Gloxinia recoils dramatically, a hand over his tender, bleeding heart. "Treachery!" he sobs, "Betrayed by my dearest sister and my closest friend! Am I not the most unfortunate king?" 

Finally, the laughter hiding away in Drole's heart spills over, two bright barks ringing pleasantly in Gloxinia's ear. Immediately, the king stops his histrionics, flying over to Drole's side to prod more sweet joy from him. 

"Gerheade, look! Only the guilty laugh like that!" And he pokes his finger into Drole's shoulder, "Where is Gladios? Arrest him!" 

Between hunching himself over to hide his mirthful face and valiantly attempting to regain his composure, Drole manages to mumble something quite unintelligible to Gloxinia. He leans in a bit closer, ears perked in case he's teased a bit too much, "What was that?" 

"You," Drole says, and even through the thick brush of his hair, Gloxinia is disappointed to see that his stoic face has already been recovered, "will be the death of me." 


	3. Yellow Carnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whyever would you hold a wild rose close  
> If you never were prepared for the sting of the thorn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline stuff is weird. Just assume it's sometime after Rou in a maybe alternate universe where these two didn't immediately become Commandments.

"I think I'm in love with you," he says and though it's mumbled under his breath, sleep weighing the words to steel between them, Drole means every bit of it. 

There's no immediate response and a part of the Giant King is grateful. Gloxinia is a creature of distorted smiles and hidden reactions. An old tree which allows its leaves to fall so birdlings believe in their strength yet yields not even the smallest of twigs to the hurricane's winds. He'd half expected to be met with a toothy smile, a light 'I love you too' from beneath elegant laughter - one comrade acknowledging the next while deliberately ignoring the meaning behind the confession. 

Silence, no matter the heaviness, meant that Gloxinia was considering him seriously. 

A slow breeze skates past and though it chills the tip of Drole's nose, he can only focus on the fairy laying beside him. He fights with himself, weighing the pros of peeking just to gauge the expression painted across Gloxinia's face but he takes a breath. Calms his nerves. At best, Gloxinia is asleep, entirely ignorant of Drole's confession (and truly, he supposes that would be the most 'Gloxinia' response to a situation of this nature). At worst he's contemplating the most efficient way to erase Drole from this plain of existence. At this point, he isn't sure which of those extremes he'd prefer. 

The quiet stretches out for longer. Discomfort begins to roll in, storm clouds slithering over placid skies. Drole can only maintain his anxiety for a few seconds more before he finally rolls over, Gloxinia's name falling from inquisitive lips. 

The Fairy King is most certainly not asleep. 

At some point, he'd risen from his relaxed position and now sits cross-legged, his back to Drole and red hair drifting softly on the gentle winds. 

The Giant makes to sit up, heart thundering in the vault of his chest but Gloxinia speaks.

"Don't move." 

And his words carry with them the sharpness of Death Thorn's pierce. 

Drole swallows. 

Tension is rare between them. It's difficult to argue with one who can discern the intricacies of the heart, harder still to disagree when illusion is Gloxinia's mother tongue. A part of Drole regrets that they don't butt heads more often. He's in unfamiliar ground now, untested boundaries surrounding every exit he can think of. 

He can only think to wait. To hope that tranquility will see the situation rectified before he missteps any further. 

"'Love'," Gloxinia finally spits and as he turns to meet Drole's eye, the Giant feels the blood sitting just beneath his skin freeze, "is a contemptible human concept." 

And he flies off, wisps of a bloody tempest trailing behind him. 

Drole watches him go, the vacuum of the night's sudden emptiness oppressive against his flesh. A strong gale fills the space Gloxinia once occupied, and the Titan finally lets himself feel the cold. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my beta's pleas, I don't have any intention of continuing this prompt hshd


	4. Rhododendron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you hear? Did you hear?   
> The Fairy King has sinned against the Lord!  
> What did he do? What did he do?   
> He showed mercy to Her only begotten daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for something a little different! Unfortunately, this one is lacking in Drole but Meliodas finally enters the fray so that was interesting. Writing TC Meliodas is fun because I imagine he was such an ass to everyone who wasn't Elizabeth back then lmao. 
> 
> It's okay though, eventually he learns.

_ He remembers the Lord of the Faefolk. _

Elizabeth lays limp in his arms. 

The world explodes around him, typhoon’s cacophonous touch laying waste to the landscape but he does not feel the slice of the wind. Raindrops pierce through the clouds, bullets of water that seem to attack the thin veil of his cloak but he cares not for them. All he knows is the gellid flesh pressed against his chest, the drooping wings whose feathers seem to swell with water, bright white eyelashes slack from exhaustion, delicate eyebrows devoid of that determined furrow. 

He’s running out of options, had gravely miscalculated during his battle with Calmadios and now was left without a place to return to, without a roof with which to weather this storm under. He had no place where Elizabeth could rest and recuperate from her wounds. 

_ Even amongst the wanton destruction Meliodas had wrought in his time in the physical realm, the memory stands stark in the backdrop of his mind. A routine perimeter sweep after they had managed to gain new territory from beating back the Goddess Clan in the south. The normal agenda after such events - visiting the human nests, establishing the new order, weeding out dissenters and surviving pests, setting up scouts; it was all necessary yet monotonous activity so no one particularly fancied running such errands. It was only because Meliodas had drawn the short lot that he had to do the grunt work himself.  _

_ He hadn’t expected to find Fairies in the human nest, small creatures with their delicate wings healing humans and helping repair their odd little hutches. He’d not so much as heard about encounters with Fairies since coming into the realm - only knew of the whispers of the so-called Fairy King’s Forest and the great magic that was contained within. Meliodas thought it all nothing more than the mangled stories of drunk demons. He hadn’t felt any significant magic in the physical realm besides the heavy cloud that was the bestial Giant Clan and so he had dismissed even the notion of Fairies as such.  _

_ Yet there they were, smaller than even him in their diminutive stature, little faces scrunched in joy and determination even as the nest around them was razed and half ablaze.  _

_ And so Meliodas thought, ‘If the Fae are real, then surely their King is no illusion either.’  _

Zeldris must have heard by now he thinks. Would know that he made good on his word to abandon their people for the sake of Elizabeth and, ultimately, for ending this useless conflict. 

Was he laughing at him? Was he gleefully watching his heinous older brother suffer for choosing a lover over the future of their clan only to immediately lose her to his pride? Meliodas alone had made the decision to defect while surrounded by his troops and three Commandments. His confidence in his strength had cost him dearly, but with Elizabeth at his back, he had felt invincible. 

The rain continues to pour around them, but Meliodas cannot feel its freezing touch. Elizabeth’s warm blood is beginning to seep through her clothes. He doesn’t want to hold her tighter, fears that squeezing her will only make her bleed out faster. What good is his strength if he cannot help those most important to him in their times of need? 

Lightning tears the sky asunder, thunder racing so close to its heel that the world around him seems to quake. He’ll have to land - he can’t risk attracting the bolts with Elizabeth in his grip. He is a demon but he can’t help but pray. 

Prays that the chill descending on Elizabeth’s skin is only the rain. Prays that Zeldris finds some way to end the conflict too. Prays that he hasn’t ruined the only thing that could save Elizabeth’s life. 

_ It surprises him even now. The ease with which the Fairies revealed the location of their home to him. Meliodas was quite aware that they knew him to be a demon. Even without knowledge of the rank or class that he occupied, his magic alone was nothing but purest, deepest black - yet, even as they trembled with their breaths caught in their throats and their little fingers halted in their actions, they dutifully told him what it was he wanted to know.  _

_ He remembers thinking then that the Fairies were a weak bunch - that they were a naive people who surely teetered on the brink of extinction for the easily exploitable trust they so readily gave.  _

_ Then came the fog.  _

He’s not surprised that even during this tempest, the fog is thick. 

The last time he entered, the mist showed him illusions that confounded him for hours. The road disappeared beneath him, he’d ended up on a mountain and then at a lake and throughout it all quiet laughter echoed in his ear, disorienting him. Angering him. 

Today there is only the quiet of deep, deep fog and the dampened splashing of rain as it struggles to cut through haze. 

Meliodas lands on the muddy ground and takes off sprinting. He slips in an errant puddle, the ground slick and treacherous but even then he does not let go of Elizabeth. The air’s knocked from his lungs as he lands on his back. His shoulder burns but he cannot heal himself. He does not know what effect his miasma would have on Elizabeth in this weakened state. He does not want to find out. With trembling fingers, he adjusts her, frowns as the muscles beneath her fair skin refuse to twitch even when he lets his touch linger on the plush flesh of her lips, her cheek, the puncture in his stomach which gushes, gushes, and was he always able to glimpse the pink of her stomach? Was it wrong that he found that healthy colour as beautiful as the rest of her? But her skin is cold, cold  _ too cold _ and her blood runs hot and Meliodas curses even the rains, roars his frustration so the lord of the lands knows that he is in no mood for games. 

**_“Gloxinia!”_ **

_ A part of him wondered if the Fairies had conned him; if they had only pretended to be shy things and had taken the opportunity to lead him to his death instead of guiding him to the Forest like they claimed they would. He’d think much higher of them if that was the case.  _

_ As it stands, Meliodas only wishes to tear the heads from their breakable bodies for the tasteless jest. Already, he’d found himself at the bottom of a lake, in which swimming in any direction only dragged him further down, a mountain trail which had led to him being apparently attacked by some manner of beast and a desert which stretched for so many hours that Meliodas had begun to sweat through the leathers of his gear. Terrible caterwauling the likes he had only heard in the deepest annals of the Underworld dogged his steps, and when the screeching stopped, the laughing began.  _

_ In each direction he was met with nothing but a wall of fog so thick that he could not even see the colour of his shoes and with each step without a discernible goal in sight, his resentment only grew.  _

_ And then, oddly, he caught the strong smell of flowers.  _

An unmistakable flash of red like spider lilies blooms in the corner of his periphery. 

The tumultuous rain quiets to a mere whisper and the fog dissipates leaving only a dew laden field of bright, bright flowers. 

The Fairy King is no less spectacular the second time around, celestial wings aglow with multicoloured magic which seems to glitter even in the midst of this gloomy, terrible squall. He stands with his hands at his side, thin lips pressed into a fine line. He is unarmed, alone. Unimpressed. 

“You have returned,” he says dully and Meliodas does not have time to be offended at the lack of respect. 

He tightens his grip on Elizabeth’s thigh, does his best to keep from snarling, “Heal her!” 

A perfect eyebrow threatens to scrape scarlet hairline, “I beg your pardon?” 

Meliodas growls, refuses to rest Elizabeth against the forest floor yet cannot risk jostling her for the sake of emphasis, “She hurt herself protecting me. I want you to heal her.” 

Gloxinia’s neutral expression becomes a faintly bemused smile, “Is that a request or a threat, Demon Lord?” 

Meliodas glares (and Elizabeth is growing cold in his grip, cold, cold, he is running out of time-) “Both, Fairy.” 

The fog begins to creep in not unlike storm clouds on the placid horizon. The sound of thunder begins to descend upon them, red and purple flower buds disappearing beneath the cloak of the Fairy King’s enchanted mist. The fae smiles and it is a cold, cruel thing which sits comfortably on cherubic features, “Then I bid you farewell.” 

Meliodas feels the wrath overflow, feels it in the way his vision goes black at the edges, in the way he can hear Elizabeth’s failing heartbeat. Anger at Gloxinia for refusing him, for dooming Elizabeth to death. Anger at himself for being unable to protect her, for failing her, “I will raze this forest to the ground, Gloxinia! Help her or I will slaughter every one of your kind!” 

And that despicable Fairy only looks down at him, golden eyes more damning than any bolt of heavenly lightning, “It matters not, Demon Lord, she will already be dead.” 

Then he is alone. 

Elizabeth’s heartbeat grows so frail that Meliodas cannot hear it over the rain that has rushed in. Fog blinds his eyes, anger stifles his mind and the breaks and creaks in his bones finally overwhelm him. He crumples, mud splattering all over Elizabeth’s once white battle silks. She will die. She will die and it will have been his fault. Is this how Zeldris felt he wonders? This despair - this deep, gaping emptiness as the warmth of his lover cools to ice beneath his numb fingers. 

Meliodas has never cried. It is a foreign concept to one as high born as he but his heart sinks to his stomach and threatens to slip free from his chest altogether. He bends his head, furrows his brows, squeezes Elizabeth’s flesh as he listens to the slowing heart. 

‘ _ Please,’  _ he wants to whisper. ‘ _ Please, please have mercy on a sinner. Just this once.’ _

A pungent scent like foreign herbs fills his nose - 

“[Droplet of Life]” 

There is a glow, some bright unfathomable light and Meliodas sits up like he’s been burnt. Elizabeth’s heart suddenly beats in her chest, loud and melodic and it is the sweetest sound Meliodas has heard in years. He looks up to find cold eyes looking down on him, the Fairy King’s red hair spilling over his shoulders like reeds against some sheer cliffside. 

He frowns, squints at Meliodas then appraises Elizabeth. Without so much as another word, he straightens himself and makes a gesture with two of his fingers. The fog lifts entirely, revealing a twisted up pathway between massive, primordial boughs. Flowers of every specie litter the ground preceding the entryway and Gloxinia turns his back on them. “Spend the night here,” he says and though Meliodas twitches at the unmistakable authority in that light voice, his gratitude and surprise renders him mute. “This storm will rage for four days and five nights. Regain your strength then leave.” 

And then he disappears into the forest, leaving Meliodas and Elizabeth in the stillness of his eden. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a silly headcanon of mine that even though Gloxinia can't read Meliodas' heart, he's annoyingly good at reading /him/. Somehow, I imagine that they're actually pretty similar even if neither can understand where the other is coming from at times.


	5. Agrimony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Before he was [Meliodas the Dragon Sin of Wrath] he happened to be [Meliodas, the magnificent ass]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was in no way supposed to take this long to post, but things have been strange and my mental health's been on a steady decline. I feel a bit bad since this is another bit about just Meliodas and Gloxinia but I'm thinking of doing some parts with just Drole and Elizabeth to balance that out. 
> 
> In any case, I hope the wait wasn't /too/ unbearable. Enjoy!

“Why haven’t you tried to kill us yet?” 

The question comes out of the blue, a few branches below where Gloxinia is trying to nap. The fae king sighs. He’d felt the restless energy of the young Demon Lord from kilometers away - he leaked miasma like he was some newborn changeling which in and of itself was a troublesome feature - but he hadn’t anticipated a straight-forward confrontation. Not when simply accepting that the proud Meliodas had needed aid from  _ Fairies _ seemed to make his face curdle. 

Gloxinia peers down from his makeshift nest, mindful of the few birds that had taken purchase on his stomach, “Are you asking me to slaughter you, young demon? It can be arranged if you wish it.” He considers for a moment, finds himself snickering at the thought, “Though, I can guarantee that your friend will be a bit disappointed with your decision.” 

There’s a pause before Gloxinia finds his vision filled with the agitated expression of the young demon. Not for the first time, he notes that Meliodas truly isn’t much to behold; short in stature, baby fat still rounding his cheeks and even with his muscled form obvious beneath his loose garments, Gloxinia cannot quite take him seriously away from the tension of a battlefield. Most importantly, Gloxinia cannot acknowledge one who refuses to bow before the head of the lands they inhabit. Everything from the set of Meliodas’ jaw to the clench of his fist to the hostility wafting off of him - it all illustrates a vivid picture of perfect disrespect. 

Gloxinia hates it. Immensely. 

“Stop fooling around, Gloxinia,” he seethes. “You know who we are - what  _ I _ am. What do you want from us? Nobody harbours demons and goddesses out of the kindness of their hearts.” 

The birds flee. Concerned whispers flow from branches of the tree into Gloxinia’s ear and the fae king smiles tenderly. Puts a steadying hand on the rough wood and sends a bit of reassuring magic through its system. “Perhaps your kind requires a reason to help the half dead, but Fairies are gracious creatures.” A glance from beyond dark red lashes, a smile that is more scythe than grace, “Isn’t that good for you?” 

A glare distorts his features, his miasma thickening until it begins coagulating into visible wisps of dark black and heady violet, “This is no joking matter, Fairy.” 

He may not be a Goddess, but neutralising such magic is well within his scope. A flower blossoms beneath Meliodas’ feet and from its vibrant stamen comes a soothing scent like jade and weak liquor. Meliodas is quick on the uptake, leaps to escape the trap but miscalculates the length of the branch and finds himself slipping quicker than he can summon his wings. Gloxinia’s sigh is so deep he fears he’ll alert the gods. But he is a graceful king, and so he sends sturdy vines to stop the young demon from losing to the whims of gravity. 

He folds his legs beneath him, braces his chin in his hand as he waits for the vines to pull the blond ball of impudence to return to his level. “It’s a good thing that I am taking this seriously then,” he says to Meliodas’ upside down countenance, “Imagine the mortification if one such as you lost a bout with one of my young trees.” 

“This isn’t  _ funny. _ ” 

Gloxinia laughs, lets the vines dump Meliodas into an undignified heap onto the wood and watches him scramble to keep his balance a second time. “Isn’t it? I find this entire situation quite amusing.” 

He growls, bearing his teeth like some feral animal and ah, demons are all the same, aren’t they, “You’re beginning to piss me off--” 

“No,” Gloxinia interrupts and all traces of mirth falls from his face like autumn strips foliage from the trees, “ _ you _ are pissing  _ me _ off.” The world around them quivers, nature bending to the emotions of its king, “I show you mercy, welcome you into my forest, offer my food and my land. I accommodate your wishes to be left alone so you may lick your wounds, repair your clothing so you could preserve your useless modesty, offer the forest’s beasts so you and your compatriot could eat your stomachs full yet still you possess the audacity to question my motivations?” 

“Yes!” The brat snarls, “It’s too good to be true! What’s the catch, what do you get from all of this?” 

Gloxinia feels himself a damsel with the amount of sighing he’s done within the half hour, “Is kindness truly such a foreign concept to your kind, Meliodas?” 

The redhead winces as Meliodas bursts his vines, moves to put his hands on him. Gloxinia flies out of the way, irritation mounting exponentially with every offense against him. The blond looks up, curses beneath his breath, “Kindness doesn’t  _ exist _ in this world. Mercy? Sanctuary? Benevolence? These are just means to an end.” 

“Then leave.” 

Gloxinia narrows his eyes, folding his arms across his chest, “If you doubt my motivations so thoroughly, then take your friend and go face your extermination with pride.” 

Meliodas’ angry expression slackens at that. “You-?” 

“Knew? Of course I did. This Forest may be neutral ground but I am not so ignorant as to not know the names and faces of the general of the Demon’s army and the Bloody Saint of the Goddesses,” and perhaps he’s being a bit cruel but he cannot help the smirk that paints his lips, “Naturally, I am not so unintelligent that I cannot figure the reasons why both of you would be together. Yes, I know it all.” 

“Then tell me! What the fuck do you want from us?!” 

Gloxinia throws his head back, chuckles inelegantly, “Do you really want to know?” 

Meliodas, predictably, grows more incensed, “Stop playing around!” 

“Nothing.” 

The blond winds his arm up, fully prepared to launch an offense, “If you won’t give a straight answer, I’ll beat one out of you.” 

Gloxinia shrugs, “My answer will not change.” He decides to take a chance, figures that even though he cannot hear Meliodas’ thoughts the young demon is confused enough that Gloxinia can face him eye to eye. “You may not be able to understand it, but Fairies are a simple race. War and subterfuge, conflict and tragedy - these things are all foreign ideas to us. We cry when we are sad, dance when we are happy and, indeed, help the sick when we are asked. That is all there is to it.” 

Still, Meliodas shakes his head, disbelief written plainly on his face, “That… that doesn’t make any sense.” 

The Fairy King puts a hand on tense shoulders, gives a true smile, “It doesn’t need to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, is anyone as interested in TC Meliodas and Elizabeth and their dynamic with Drolxinia or am I just gonna have to stuff these in between Drolxinia shenanigans just to get them out there? 
> 
> Lemme know what the general vibe is.


	6. Comet Orchid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What man could possibly fathom the thoughts of a god?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm being nice and updating twice to make up for my prolonged absence. 
> 
> Things probably seem pretty slow now but I promise there actually is genuine relationship stuff in here. Eventually.

“You are… surprisingly cute at this height.” 

The comment comes from somewhere above him (and dear Mother Gaia isn’t that the most surreal of thoughts) but Drole need not crane his head to know the airy tone of Gerheade’s contemplative voice. He’s careful when he adjusts himself - his head is weighed with the press of the elaborate wreath of flowers and branches Gloxinia painstakingly weaved into his hair, the stiffness between his vertebrae is just beginning to edge on uncomfortable - but he manages to shift just enough to allow Gerheade to land beside him. 

Unbidden, he finds himself smiling as a startled gasp leaves her dainty lips. 

Gloxinia lays in an undignified heap in his laps, bright red hair somehow untangled despite the way the wild strands spill over Drole’s skin and the forest floor like streaks of wasted paint. He sleeps deeply, laughing eyes shut and smirking mouth gentle - the cherub who lays just behind the picture of mischievous grace. 

Gerheade speaks and her voice becomes so soft that Drole leans unconsciously in an attempt to hear her, “Is something wrong with him?” 

The earnestness of the question gives the Giant-turned-relatively-Human-sized pause. He is well aware that Gloxinia rarely sleeps, despite decades upon decades at his side, Drole can scarcely list the amount of times the Fairy King has slept with him near on his fingers, but he didn’t think it so bad that his sister’s first thought was poison - or perhaps something even more dire. The hand that lays upon Gloxinia’s sweet head stops in its rhythmic stroking, the Giant King regarding Gerhead with a certain measure of levity, “Is it that strange to see him resting?” 

The Fae Princess seems utterly enchanted with the sight before her. Honey bright eyes stay stuck to that small chest, to the way lustrous wings have folded and lay limp against the length of her brother’s pale body, a surprisingly accurate mimicry of discarded sheets. A thumb had long since snuck its way between thin lips, a childhood habit that had obviously not been kicked and for all that Drole can barely move his head for fear of his hairstyle collapsing in on itself, he counts himself lucky to bear witness to a vision so rare that, apparently, not even Gloxinia’s sister had seen it. 

“Brother never sleeps,” Gerhead eventually breathes, voice still half reverential in its tone and volume. She tears her eyes away from him for a half second, almost meeting Drole’s unguarded eye before promptly refocusing her attention on her brother as though he were some mythic creature about to evaporate into the wisps of her memory, “Not once has he ever laid down to rest - he doesn’t need to. He gets his energy from his trees.” 

Red strands shift. A low, distinctly agitated hum vibrates forth from within a slender throat. Gloxinia’s eyes scrunch, his nose pinches in irritation. There is perfect stillness from both Gerheade and Drole as they watch, fearful that they’ve roused him. Instead, he leans his weight into Drole’s prone palm which still lays placidly atop the crown of his head, a subconscious demand to continue whatever ministrations he had once performed. It barely takes a moment for Drole to continue his stroking. So focused is he on coaxing Gloxinia back to dream’s door that he almost misses the starry eyed look of adoration painted over Gerheade’s face. 

(A part of him is certain that were his skin a more natural hue, it would be alight from the force of his blush. Gloxinia is unbearable cute like this, demanding and still and different from the force of energy and nature that is his usual self. It is an apparent blessing that Drole will cherish.) 

“You don’t get energy from the trees too?” he asks after they are both sure that Gloxinia is comfortably asleep. It strikes him as odd that Gerheade bothered to make the distinction - were they not both born of the Sacred Tree?

The princess shakes her head, indulgent smile finally adorning her lips, “Brother is in an entirely different class than I.” A quiet laugh spills forth, like she’s remembered something hysterical and is stifling her mirth for the sake of propriety, “I may have been born from the Sacred Tree like him, but sometimes it feels like he  _ is _ the Tree,” her smile drops, something tinged in ruefulness settling over her like a veil, “Often I wonder if he is just an extension of the Tree altogether.” 

And this, Drole understands. 

Gloxinia may seem a simple Fairy but Drole had experienced himself the depths of his strength and wisdom. They were both kings in their own right, but Drole would easily acquiesce that he had fallen into power through his concerted efforts to unite his fractured and directionless people. Each step he took was new, uncharted territory, every decision he made shaped the form of his race’s history and Drole, who could see even the strands of time were he to scrutinise hard enough often found himself a bit paralysed beneath the weight of every man in Megadozer. 

Gloxinia? Well, it is no exaggeration at all to assert that Gloxinia was born for this. 

“Would it be so bad?” he hears himself ask. Gerheade’s surprised gaze feels hot against his cheek but he presses on. “If Gloxinia were just an extension of the Tree I mean. Aren’t you all?” 

She leans her weight against Drole’s unoccupied side as she considers his question, folds her legs beneath her body and rests her staff gently on the floor beside her. Gloxinia doesn’t even flinch as her tiny fingers join Drole’s in the wild field that is her brother’s hair, “It’s a little complicated, honestly. To answer your question, I suppose it wouldn’t be; his nature doesn’t erase the fact that he is still the brother I love…” She trails off, eyes betraying the melancholy of her thoughts. 

Drole allows her a few breaths of silence then gently prods, “But?” 

A short laugh, nervous and instinctual, “But, I guess I would be disappointed.” Her hand stills and she regards Drole seriously, “Wouldn’t you be upset to learn that your best friend was just the eyes and ears of some superancient deity?” 

It feels as though his tongue has turned to ash in his mouth. 

“Who knows?” 

It’s all he can do to keep his thoughts from spiralling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's definitely going to be a Drole chapter. I'm looking forward to delving a little deeper into my gentle boy.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr @gingermintpepper.


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